


It's the Little Gestures

by ClaroQueQuiza



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, birthday gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaroQueQuiza/pseuds/ClaroQueQuiza
Summary: It didn't take much to get to know Hanzo. In fact, it didn't take much at all.A birthday gift for Nimpnawak, based on her series of comics on Tumblr. Links within.





	It's the Little Gestures

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy birthday to [Nimpnawak](http://nimpnawakproduction.tumblr.com)! She has been very kind, so here is a small something based on her excellent comics on Tumblr! Links to the comics are at the end of the story! Please enjoy!

 

You’d think it’d take a lot to make an ex-yakuza assassin comfortable in a totally alien, mildly hostile environment. And in hindsight, it did take a lot--but it didn’t _feel_ like a lot. It was all spread out, just little things, little gestures that added up to something powerful, like drops of rain gathering into a torrent.

 

McCree can’t even remember most of them, to be honest. Most of them were so small, so inconsequential that they simply did not stick around in his memory. But some of them stand out.

 

He remembers more of them from the early days, when even the little gestures had to be carefully thought out and the response monitored. There was the big grandiose gesture of having everyone come down to meet the new arrival, a show of support for Genji’s decision and a subtler show of strength and unity for his brother. It had not gone unnoticed; it showed in the slight widening of his eyes and the tension in his shoulders.

 

But even more showed in the little things: grey splashed across his temples, the wrinkles around his eyes, and the flinches, the tiny flinches, whenever Genji came near, starting with the rib-cracking hug he immediately bestowed upon his brother.

 

(it was all in the little things, the way Genji reminded both his brother and his friends)

 

So McCree, cautious, doubtful, even angry, but always observant, decided that he could live with showing a bit of kindness, a little neighborliness. It wouldn’t hurt until it did, after all.

 

And it didn’t hurt, funnily enough. For a while there, it was simply because Hanzo didn’t seem to be there at all. After the initial meeting, he almost immediately faded into the shadows, showing his face sporadically and reluctantly, mostly when Genji virtually dragged him into the open by his ear, sometimes as furtive glimpses in the hallways at odd hours of the night, rarely in the company of others.

 

Hana Song was the first to be seen with Hanzo without Genji hovering at his brother’s elbow. By McCree, in point of fact. He’d been the last out of the mess hall that evening and, knowing that Hana’s sleeping habits were “habits” in name only, he dropped by the rec room with a teapot of chamomile tea to at least encourage her to sleep when humans are meant to. Lo and behold, to his surprise he found Hanzo at her side, both holding controllers, Hana looking focused and Hanzo looking aghast.

 

McCree politely didn’t comment on the scores displayed on the screen. He only set down the platter and said, “Howdy, didn’ expect the two of ya here. Lemme go grab another cup.”

 

Hanzo glanced away from the screen (Hana took immediate advantage of his distraction, not that she needed it), and frowned. ”Please do not trouble yourself,” he murmured.

 

“How bout I do anyway? ‘Trouble’ is my middle name,” he couldn’t resist from saying with a wink. Hana snorted. Hanzo raised an eyebrow, but McCree only smiled and waved a hand as he walked away. “Ain’ no trouble,” he called over his shoulder. He returned to plunk down the second cup next to him before filling the first and pointedly setting it down by Hana’s elbow.

 

That was the first (or maybe the first couple of) little things.

 

After that, there were more opportunities. A friendly nod in the halls when Hanzo infrequently appeared, leaving some clearly marked leftovers from a big team dinner in the fridge when Hanzo (nearly always) failed to appear, and making sure to always take at least two cups when bringing Hana various herbal anxiolytics. Hanzo was not always with her--it was more usually Lúcio--but when he was, he never failed to twitch an eyebrow at the offered cup.

 

And if the supply of chamomile tea started running out a little sooner than before, McCree did nothing more than make sure it was always on the supply run list. And if Hanzo started appearing more regularly in the mess hall at breakfast-like hours, McCree did nothing more than increase the frequency of his friendly nods.

 

It was in the mess hall, actually, that McCree had the opportunity for another little gesture. Genji had finally prevailed on his brother to join him for breakfast, a key victory, because, as he had earlier told McCree, he was fairly certain that Hanzo believed he had taken away Genji’s ability to enjoy even something as simple as a good meal. Genji was determined to demonstrate the opposite by eating even more enthusiastically than usual.

 

It was the little things, like that.

 

McCree had nodded at the brothers as Genji sat and Hanzo went to the kitchen to fetch something. McCree brought up a holoscreen at the bar counter as he sipped at his coffee and lost himself in browsing some videos while he waited for Reinhardt to finish his brötchen. He smiled faintly when he came across an old music video for a ranchera song he’d liked quite a bit some years ago. He started quietly whistling along, and even started swaying his hips to the beat.

 

He grinned when he caught himself and straightened, tucking his shirt back in where it had come loose from his motions. He was dressed for a combat sim after breakfast, but nothing could keep his shirt in place, no matter how much he cinched his belt and no matter how tight the combat webbing pants were. He turned and saw that while he’d been distracted, Hanzo appeared to have had an accident. He was mopping up a huge puddle of spilled tea surrounding his and Genji’s glasses. Genji was smiling at him like the Cheshire Cat, looking inordinately pleased with Hanzo’s misfortune. McCree shook his head wryly. Just like a younger sibling.

 

“Here, Hanzo, let me take care of that,” he offered, striding forward when Hanzo glared at the sopping wet washcloth in his hand. “I’ll grab you another one from the kitchen, too.”

 

Hanzo looked up, a little red in the face. “Thank you, that will not be necessary,” he bit out as he made to go to the kitchen.

 

“Well, here, lemme at least take that down t’the laundry room for ya. I’m headin’ down that way as soon as Reinhardt finishes anyway.” Hanzo glanced between the washcloth, McCree’s earnest face, and, weirdly, Genji’s still-mischievous grin, before he deposited the washcloth in McCree’s hand and disappeared into the kitchen.

 

“Thank you, McCree,” said Genji with a strange edge to his voice, drawing McCree’s attention.

 

“For--?” McCree queried, narrowing his eyes at Genji’s wide smile and knowing look.

 

“Oh, you know. Just the small things you do to make my brother feel--warm.”

 

“Warm?” McCree asked, mystified.

 

“Excuse me,” laughed Genji with an air of superiority, “I meant to say, for giving him a warm welcome.”

 

McCree shrugged, glancing over towards the kitchen to make sure Hanzo hadn’t returned yet. “I ain’ been doin’ much. Just little things, like you said.”

 

“Yes,” murmured Genji, still smiling. “But sometimes it only takes something small.”

 

Hanzo returned just then, with a handful of paper towels. He paused in front of McCree and held out some of them. “So you do not drip tea everywhere,” he explained to McCree’s questioning look.

 

“Oh! Good idea there, thanks.” And Hanzo _smiled._ Just a little smile, with an equally small nod as McCree accepted the paper towels, but it was there. And while McCree smiled a lot, his might have gotten a little wider, a little more genuine.

 

(it was the little things)

 

Soon after, Hanzo joined the combat simulations and training sessions, and McCree was more than a little impressed. His work was breathtaking, though the man was as little seen as he’d been in the halls of the Watchpoint; usually the only sign of his presence was an arrow or, rarely, two arrows that threaded the narrowest gaps to score precise hits, whether it be on a bot or an agent on the other team. McCree couldn’t help but get a little competitive, trying to replicate some of those impressive shots while attempting a few tricks of his own. He succeeded more often than not, but it wasn’t until he took out six bots with Deadeye _and_ took out another two sneaking up on him on either side with a quick combat roll backwards to get them in his line-of-sight _and_ then leisurely lined up one last shot on a bot as he dropped three meters into the simulated plaza, taking and making the shot halfway through the fall, that the archer showed himself.

 

McCree landed with spurs jingling cheerfully through the echoes of the last gunshot, stood, and, flipping out his serape with his metal hand for extra effect, spun Peacekeeper on his fingers, vertical, horizontal, and into his holster in a smooth motion as Athena announced the results of the simulation.

 

An arrow _thwack!-_ ed into the wall at his side. In a flash, almost too fast to be seen, Peacekeeper was back in his hand and trained upwards. The archer’s golden hair ribbon had betrayed him with a small flurry of motion just before the arrow struck, but Hanzo did not look the least bit surprised or put out to be immediately found. Instead, he stood to his full height, Storm Bow at his side, and, nodding first at the debris of the bot in front of McCree then at the debris of the multitude he had left behind, he made eye contact and fist pumped, just once.

 

McCree grinned wide, laughed, and shrugged, cockily, hands out wide to his sides.

 

Hanzo returned the smile, wide enough to be seen at that distance.

 

(just the little things)

 

Hanzo’s first mission with Overwatch was a rousing success. The rooftops and nooks and crannies of King’s Row were his natural habitat, and the effort to stop and recover the EMP bomb threatening the underground Omnic population went much smoother with him striking down the Talon agents with ruthless efficiency. Even the appearance of Widowmaker, though alarming when all that saved Lena’s life was turning at the last second so the bullet hit her shoulder, followed by a quick use of the chronal accelerator, turned out to be less of a disaster than it might have been. Widowmaker soon found herself playing cat and mouse with another highly skilled, deadly sniper, one who wasn’t even afraid to toss her taunts right back at her as they stalked each other over the rooftops.

 

McCree’s heart nearly stopped when a rifle shot rang out, followed by Widowmaker calling out, “Ah! A shame, just when I felt challenged.”

 

Then, a familiar _thwack!_ offset by a strange electric sparking noise and a sharp _Merde!_

 

“My apologies. We can continue some other time, when you have a new scope to help you aim.”

 

In the end, however, it was not clear at all who was the cat and who was the mouse. Hanzo had had to dodge as many rifle bullets as Widowmaker did arrows. McCree didn’t find _that_ out until much later, though. All he knew was that after Talon was in full retreat and Widowmaker was forced to withdraw, Hanzo joined them with more than a few scrapes and more than a little grime on his face and more than a little tired. In fact, he was exhausted, and McCree did not envy him the journey back to Gibraltar. Hanzo did not allow himself to be vulnerable in public, a sentiment McCree understood and secretly agreed with, and that meant, no matter how long the trip was, Hanzo would not sleep on the transport.

 

Which was why it was all the more surprising when Hanzo did precisely that.

 

(It’s the little things)

 

McCree didn’t notice at first. He was talking animatedly if a bit tiredly with Lena, discussing the battle at first but soon transitioning to lighter subjects as they stood together by the jump seats. He had seen Hanzo settle down in a jump seat, fold his arms against the chill of the early English spring that chased them into the transport, and close his eyes. His upright, tight posture signaled he was merely resting his eyes and ready to jump to full attention at any moment, though.

 

But soon the unexpected sound of a short snoring snort broke into his and Lena’s conversation. He looked over his shoulder out of startlement more than anything, even as kept talking, to see the rare sight of Hanzo’s relaxed shoulders, his normally rigid spine slumped against the jump seat, his head tilted forward and to the side. The only thing still tense about him were his arms, still wrapped securely around his middle, though almost his entire left side was exposed to the cold air.

 

His response was immediate. “Wait, hold on a minute,” he said distractedly as he turned away from Lena. “Be right back.” He unwrapped and pulled off his serape as he went, tucking his hat back on his head before he slowly and carefully wrapped the warm cloth around Hanzo’s shoulders. He watched his face intently, pausing at the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. The outlaw was thoroughly familiar with hair-triggers, with how even the smallest wrong move would jerk the assassin back into full consciousness. Hanzo really must have been bone-tired--he hardly stirred, even as McCree got a little bolder and tucked the serape behind his back to cushion him against the freezing metal bulkhead. He finally stood back, satisfied at the sight of Hanzo wrapped up warmly and securely.

 

He looked peaceful.

 

He returned to Lena, picking the conversation back up. “Sorry, so, as I was sayin’--what?”

 

Lena’s mouth was agape, glancing between him and the archer.

 

He furrowed his brow, suddenly feeling strangely defensive. “What? He could get cold.”

 

“Are you for real right now?” she exclaimed, her brown eyes wide under her goggles. “What about you? You’re always complaining about the cold!”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, I _complain_ about it, but I can get by.” Lena sputtered as though he had just said he was joining Talon. “Look, what’s the big deal? I would have done the same for ya.”

 

 _That_ cut off Lena’s sputtering. She clamped her mouth shut for a second, breathed in deep as though to calm to herself, then said, “Would you have _smiled_ like that if it were me?”

 

McCree blinked and only then did he feel the color in his cheeks. How long has it been there? However long it was, it was growing, and now it was McCree who sputtered a bit. “Well--uh, yeah, of course, I mean, you’re a good friend and I’m sure helpin’ ya out a little would-- _what?!_ ”

 

Lena was grinning now. _Grinning,_ and it sharply reminded McCree of Genji’s grin a few weeks back. “So when are you going to ask him on a date?”

 

The conversation ended there, though Lena’s knowing looks didn’t.

 

(it’s just the little gestures that start adding up)

 

Hanzo woke with a start a couple hours later, just before they landed at the Watchpoint. He looked confused for a long moment (not that McCree had been watching Hanzo and definitely not dreading his reaction when he woke, no, not at all). Then Hanzo looked around and found him. Another long moment when he just _looked,_ and McCree held his breath without meaning to. Then Hanzo shrugged off the serape, _carefully,_ and stood, folding it neatly across his arm before walking over to return it.

 

“My thanks,” he said gently, cutting off whatever foolishness McCree was going to improvise.

 

McCree clicked his mouth shut, swallowed, and forced a smile as he accepted it. “Not at all, darlin’.” He blanched for a split second, then hurriedly continued, “You had your side hanging out, so just thought you could stand t’cover up a bit, is all.” He cursed inwardly as Hanzo’s eyebrow rose ever-so-slightly.

 

(It’s always the little things)

 

“Yes, I suppose I could,” he agreed as he tugged his sleeve free of his _obi_ and threaded his arm through it, closing up his kyudo-gi. McCree was uncomfortably aware of the temptation to watch the movements of the muscles of his arm and chest, but he maintained eye contact. Barely. “I should have done so before I--rested. Thank you again.”

 

“No trouble at all,” McCree breathed.

 

Hanzo smirked. “Despite your name?”

 

McCree was spared replying by Lena’s enthusiastic announcement that they were landing.

 

And he was thankful when Winston and Reinhardt met them on the landing pad with huge smiles and announced an impromptu celebration, telling them to get cleaned up and report to the rec room immediately and allowing no refusals from anyone.

 

The rest of the team awaited them there with hastily gathered party supplies and far more alcohol than was advisable.

 

McCree _might_ have gone a little overboard, but the party atmosphere soon overpowered the uncomfortably full feeling in his chest, and soon he was laughing and hollering along with everyone else and drinking everything that was thrust at him, mostly by Genji, who, after making sure that McCree was well on his way to getting sloshed, discreetly retreated at some point to join his brother at one of the tables.

 

McCree didn’t take too long to start getting cuddly.

 

“Rein-o! Rein-o, my man, you towering mountain of a man!” he called out as he lunged forward and did his best to squeeze the air out of Reinhardt’s lungs. He was far more successful in spilling an awful lot of the beer in Reinhardt’s mug, but he bellowed with laughter and returned the hug one-handed, which still managed to make McCree’s ribs creak more than he could make Reinhardt’s. He stumbled around the room, doling out praise and hugs in equal measure, throwing his arms out wide and shouting to gain his subject’s attention before moving in for the kill.

 

“A hug fer my little snowflake!” he half slurred, half laughed as he hugged a giggling Mei. She at least was prepared, holding her drink out at a safe distance as he released her with arms flailing a little more than necessary.

 

He heard Genji behind him. “Aaand Cuddly Drunk McCree strikes again,” he observed with a smirk evident in his voice. McCree twirled around on his heel, zeroing in on the voice of the cyborg. He caught a glimpse of Genji’s wide eyes before he leapt up from a table and fled, calling out, “Take cover everyone! The big cuddly machine is on the loose!”

 

McCree knew better than to try to catch the lightning-fast cyborg.

 

He had another target now anyway.

 

“Hanzo! My man!” he boomed. Hanzo had been sitting at his brother’s side, and if the half-empty bottle in front of him was any indication, he had worked through quite a few drinks himself. His face was extremely flushed at any rate. McCree sidled up just behind him, Hanzo observing him over his shoulder with a flat look. “Who,” McCree began with widespread arms and an even wider smile, “is gonna get a _hu~uuuu~uuuug?_ ” The drawn out, singsong word drowned out whatever Hanzo was saying, and McCree dipped forward, thudding heavily into Hanzo’s back, wrapping his arms tight around Hanzo’s shoulders, and burying his face into the junction between Hanzo’s shoulder and neck.

 

Even in his drunken state, he fully expected Hanzo to stiffen, maybe even throw him off. In the back of his mind he was already chiding himself for invading Hanzo’s personal space like this and accepting the most-likely painful consequences.

 

He didn’t expect Hanzo to do nothing but collapse forward slightly under the weight of McCree’s torso. “McCree, no. No. Don’t.” The words were said in a dull, theatrical monotone, and Hanzo made no move otherwise. He didn’t even tense _at all,_ and McCree felt a thrill of victory, though he hardly knew why.

 

That was when the pleasant smell of cologne broke through to him, but it was unlike any cologne he’d ever smelled. It was something plantlike but not at all flowery. Given that the situation was going marvellously despite all expectations to the contrary, McCree couldn’t help tightening his grip just a little and-- _nuzzling_ at Hanzo’s shoulder, chasing the scent. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, and he finally hit on what it reminded him of: sitting on a grassclad riverbank, after a rainstorm had swelled a stream into a torrent. He had no idea they made cologne like that, or could replicate a passable imitation of the smell of earth and vegetation and mist in the air.

 

He sighed in wonderment. “Ya smell niiice,” he mumbled into Hanzo’s shoulderblade, lucid enough to be thankful that Hanzo was wearing something with thick, soft fabric.

 

He heard Hanzo sigh, the sound reverberating through his back and into McCree’s jaw. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” he muttered.

 

McCree immediately loosened his grip. “Sorry, there, darlin’,” he tried with a half-smile as he stepped back.

 

But Hanzo caught his arm before he could go more than a half-step.

 

“Sit,” he ordered with an attempt at a glare ruined by his red cheeks. “I must protect my new comrades from the--what did he say? The ‘big cuddly machine’?”

 

McCree laughed uproariously, even as Hanzo tugged him foward to sit. He fell into the seat heavily, bonking into the table and making Hanzo’s liquor bottle sway ominously. “Yeah, well, how’re ya gonna do that, sweetheart?” he asked roguishly. “I jus’ might need another cuddle or three before the evenin’s done.”

 

Hanzo leaned forward slightly. “If I must take you down,” he whispered, “I will.”

 

McCree couldn’t help grinning at Hanzo’s unexpectedly melodramatic tone and his overexaggerated scowl. He hadn’t thought that the corners of his lips could go down that far, but color him surprised. “And how you gonna do _that?_ ” he asked again, unable to keep a giggle from erupting.

 

Hanzo’s scowl didn’t let up by a millimeter. He raised a hand, two fingers extended. “A strike,” he growled, hamming it up, “at the _heart._ ” And he jabbed at McCree’s chest. McCree let out a sound that others might term “a shrieking laugh” and jolted back violently enough to almost fall backwards. Hanzo caught him and pulled him back, and that little near-accident was enough.

 

Hanzo burst out laughing, hoarse, snorting laughter that almost had him choking before long, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

 

And McCree--well, McCree knew he was gone, far gone.

 

He only got surer and surer as the evening wound down and both he and Hanzo sobered up a little. Instead of withdrawing as McCree feared and expected, Hanzo got a little more controlled but no more reserved. McCree got more of him that night than he got in all the weeks before, and they ended the night with a plan to meet up the next day for some target practice, maybe some friendly wagers.

 

Now the little things came fast.

 

Little touches, little glances, little smiles, little gestures. McCree would arrive at their now regular target practices to find his lane set up and ammunition waiting. Hanzo would turn to find McCree already handing him a bottle of water for a break. McCree would hear a knock at his door and find Hanzo waiting to ask if he would like to join him on a morning run. Hanzo would find a note on his door inviting him up to the roof to try some new bourbon. McCree would find Hanzo lounging on the couch in the rec room with one of McCree's favorite movies on the holoscreen. Afterwards, Hanzo would smile when McCree pulled a hidden pint of ice cream out of the freezer with a flourish.

 

Between spoonfuls, they settled on a nice restaurant with a clear view of the Strait, with the hazy mountains of Morocco in the distance.

 

That wasn’t a little thing, but McCree remembers it clearly all the same.

 

Through it all, they kept a low profile. Not out of any shame or even a desire for privacy, but more out of habit of not being too open in front of others. There were still little things, lingering looks, touching a little longer than strictly necessary, unhidden smiles.

 

The rest of the team was not foolish by any stretch of the imagination, and they made it clear with little gestures of their own. A clap on the back, a meaningful glance between the two of them as someone passed the target range or the weight room, discreetly retreating if they stumbled on the pair on the roof or in a deserted hallway, subtly assuming that where one went, there went the other also, whether it was places at the table or seats on the transport, and not-even-attempts-at-being-subtle when one went where the other could not, with invitations to games in the rec room or a night on the town as a distraction until the mission was over.

 

Sometimes, though, little things weren’t enough.

 

In Dorado, as the orange glow of a spectacular sunset mixes with the gold and crimson and azure of the festooned city streets, Hanzo pauses. When night falls, the mission will begin, and it will be hardfought even under ideal circumstances. McCree will be closely escorting the payload, the first line of defense and the first in line to bear the brunt of any attack. Hanzo will be watching over him, of course, but--

 

So McCree sighs and prepares to offer another heartfelt reassurance as Hanzo turns around, that _yes_ he’ll be alright and _yes_ he has the plan down pat and _yes_ he won’t take any unnecessary risks and _yes_ he’ll--

 

But Hanzo merely marches up to him and, butterfly-soft, cups his cheek. Before McCree really knows what’s happening, Hanzo is kissing him, softly but with significant intent, a promise and reassurance of his own that McCree didn’t know he was craving until just that moment.

 

Hanzo withdraws a few bare centimeters, gazing into McCree’s wide eyes with fire burning in the depths of his own.

 

“Take care,” he breathes huskily. Then he turns away once more and walks with a resolute step.

 

It takes McCree a few seconds.

 

“Yeah,” he replies belatedly, watching Hanzo go. “You, too.” And if he loses himself in the powerful stance and purposeful stride of his lover, he isn’t the least bit ashamed of it.

 

Until Lena sidles up to him with that _look_ on her face.

 

“Pfft. I saw that,” she accuses, pointing at his face with a shit-eating grin.

 

“You shut yer mouth,” he snaps, pulling the brim of his hat down.

 

The mission doesn’t seem as ominous with Lena’s giggles echoing through the streets, but McCree is far past needing her encouragement.

 

It was just the little things, the little gestures, that led up to this, that helped him love his man, but they were enough, even if they are by no means over.

**Author's Note:**

> [Spilled Tea](http://nimpnawakproduction.tumblr.com/post/159802432132/why-all-of-my-recent-drawings-appear-so)   
>  [To Be Wrapped in the Serape of Love](http://nimpnawakproduction.tumblr.com/post/152399514797/to-be-wrapped-in-the-serape-of-love-is-a-great)   
>  [McCuddle Extraordinaire](http://nimpnawakproduction.tumblr.com/post/152639872017/based-on-this-post-d-because-yes-mccuddle)   
>  [Take Care](http://nimpnawakproduction.tumblr.com/post/151527101387/previous-post-i-was-a-little-impatient-yesterday)
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> (Oh, and the cologne is called "Un Jardin Sur Le Nil" by Hérmes, just so you know I'm not making up fanfiction-y smells, LOL)
> 
> Happy birthday, Nimpnawak! Thank you for your support and kindness!


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